Be L I E ve
by V musicka
Summary: 4: Before the fall, there was just Sir Boast-a-Lot and his king. Lestrade tells his children a story. 221B challenge
1. Break

_Jumping on the bandwagon. :) Here's the start of my 221B collection, and I can't say what it will contain other than multiple characters, many pairings, and lots and lots of Sherlock. I'm sad that _Sherlock_ and _Sherlock Holmes_ are separate on this site, so I have to stick to the TV show for this collection, but__ I might cheat once in a while!_

_As usual, each submission will be 221 words in length (NOT including author's notes, titles, hyphens, or other non-words) and the last word of each will start with the letter "B."  
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_Please enjoy!  
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* * *

**_In which John doesn't know what he's getting into._**

John Watson is not sure how this is going to work.

It'd been clear from the beginning that he'd do anything to hew a life for himself out of London, and that he was not going to be fazed by doing it alongside the world's only consulting detective. Stamford could've introduced him to Frankenstein's monster, and he would've taken the deal with a shrug and a handshake. (Frankenstein's monster. Sherlock Holmes. They're drinking coffee together in his head, which should probably worry him.)

John is good with people because he doesn't judge them. He's seen angry, cowardly, and powerful men dance to oldies on crackling radios and give their rations to starved, frightened children, so he knows. What lies at the core of people.

What John had not bet on was how hard Sherlock Holmes would try to prove him wrong.

He hadn't bet on being _picked apart_. Whenever he comes home late, hangs up on Harry, drops something, or leaves something out of place, he feels that ice-cold gaze scatter over him. The grease on his fingertips, the wrinkles in his frown, the dust on his elbows. He can feel details physically lifted off him, turned this way and that, analyzed until-

"Are you all right, John?"

"Why don't _you_ just tell _me_?"

He leaves.

John Watson needs a break.

* * *

_One down... infinity to go!_

_They're not best buds. Yet. And any reference to Benedict Cumberbatch's performance as Frankenstein's monster is unintential, for the most part. :D  
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_The next one will be Sherlock's take on things.  
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	2. Blindsided

_Number two! Compare this with the first in order to analyze Sherlock's and John's differences. It was much easier and way more entertaining than I ever expected to get inside Sherlock's head. I hope you're enjoying my writing!_

* * *

**_In which Sherlock thinks he knows what he's getting into._**

Sherlock Holmes knows exactly how this is going to work.

The human condition is startling. More appalling than the body's cravings, more _base_ than society's fixation on factory-churned banknotes, are the lurking needs of the brain. Sherlock glorifies that testament to the bettering of mankind. But it _wants_, and as often as Sherlock tries to teach it differently, it teaches back.

He can't throw 221B's door wide and allow any odd bloke to come prancing through. Average citizens, he's proud to say, cannot cope with his life. There's the landlady's incessant sniveling...

There are dangerous people. Dark. Bored. He sympathizes with them. But others... Cold. Laughing. Boring. (Donovan. Anderson.) He's around enough to know what lies at the core of people.

He doesn't bet on an army doctor whom he can't always understand.

John Hamish Watson knows people's frailties. Yet he is frail himself; shoots a man in the back without blinking; walks paths of the dead, but mourns the losses; loses it over a handful of small experiments and some thoughtful deductions, but says, "Fantastic."

"Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson wants you to-"

"Cleaning the kitchen requires a napalm strike, but I am thinking, and you are returned from jogging and capable of disinfecting it yourself."

Silence, then stomping in the kitchen. He smirks.

Sherlock Holmes has not bet on being blindsided.

* * *

_It was fun using such a different voice for Sherlock. However, he always crams so many words into his sentences that it was tough to pear this down to 221 words! Man, I can't believe how fun it was to write from his perspective, to look through his filter... having these characters at my fingertips is almost too much to bear. It's awesome!_

_The idea behind these two drabbles was to set up the opposites of Sherlock's and John's viewpoints on life, and how they confuse each other, in order to show where they need to grow through the story and therefore through the drabbles. For example, John tries to see the good in people, but buckles down when he needs to, though he focuses on the problems at hand and doesn't think much wider than that. Sherlock believes all people are dark on the inside, but is fascinated by John, who acknowledges the darkness in others and in himself, but is a warm and good person still. John, like the majority of people, uses his heart and soul to think and make decisions, while Sherlock believes in neither of those things and glorifies his mind while delving deeply (too deeply) into the meanings behind happenings.  
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_Please don't forget to review, and make requests if you feel like it! :) Stay beautiful!  
_


	3. Black

**_In which walls come down._**

John wakes one night with sweat brimming cold and salty along the lines of his whole body, sticky tracks prickling the sides of his face, already running hot with fresh waves of tears.

He sits upright, mortified, scrubbing his face. His throat is sore and he's breathless; he's cried out in his sleep. Dreading his bed's confines, he struggles out of his twisted sheets, slipping to the ground in bare feet. He rights his sweatshirt and shuffles into the corridor.

When he enters the sitting room, he stops dead. One of Sherlock's eyes cocks toward him, peeking out from under wild curls and from above the back of the sofa. The end of his violin bow waves gently, gone rogue in a slackened grip.

Neither of them says anything.

John swallows, angling his face subtly away, nods gruffly, and hurries into the kitchen, reaching immediately into a cupboard.

He's stopped at the scent of fresh, rich coffee filling the kitchen, and he spies a steaming mug in the middle of the table.

"Didn't want it," Sherlock rumbles from the next room. "All yours."

John hesitates a bewildered moment before picking it up and taking a scalding sip. Black, two sugars. John sits slowly and drains it, anyway.

The violin sighs, playing quietly, and John sits until he fades peacefully to black.


	4. Blankets

_Though the last three can be considered related, none of these drabbles are in any particular order unless I say so. I just post them as I write them! Now for some post-Reichenbach..._

* * *

**_In which the king tells a story._**

"'Once upon a time, there lived a really brave knight.'" Lestrade chuckled, curling one arm around his daughter's shoulders. "'He had tea, biscuits, and a dozen eggs every day before going to save princesses. He was a good bloke, so he ate a balanced breakfast each morning.'"

A loud raspberry blew. "This story's stupid!" his son protested.

"Not! _I_ wrote it!" his daughter hissed back.

"'The knight served a wise king. They trusted each other and cared about the kingdom so much, they wouldn't let even the most terrible villains get in their way.'

"'One day, everyone woke to find the king missing!'

"'Everyone told the knight, and before he'd even got to eat his third egg, he rode out to save his friend.'

"'A dragon had him. It wasn't big and couldn't even breathe fire, but it was smart. When the knight found it, the dragon told the knight that the king could go home if the knight gave his sword away and stayed with the dragon instead.'

"He threw his sword away, and–and let the dragon t-take him into its lair." The crayon-scribbled page shook. "But the knight wasn't afraid.'

"'The king–'"

The children waited.

"'He–"

-couldn't finish.

"Daddy?"

Lestrade reached and hugged his children tightly before tucking them, confused and frightened, safely under the blankets.


	5. Boys

**_In which Mrs. Hudson wishes that things won't change._**

Mrs. Hudson had her work cut out for her.

"_Sherlock_!" a voice bellowed from above. "You bloody – where are you? Give it back _now_!"

Immediately, a tall, gangly, curly-haired shape flew down the stairs and bolted into Mrs. Hudson's kitchen. Sherlock pressed a finger to his lips, then ducked behind the counter, clutching a laptop to his chest.

"Sherlock, dear, what in the world–"

"And what've you done to the BLOODY TOILET?!"

"Sher-" He shushed her. "_*Sherlock!_*"

"I'm testing John's skills of deduction. Practice is essential if he's to improve. He wasn't cooperating, so I had to take a hostage."

"But the toilet!"

"Collateral damage. Necessary."

"So I'm to leave you to some horrid game of hide-and-seek, then?"

Sherlock clicked his tongue. "Don't be ridiculous, Mrs. Hudson. Detective work is hardly a game. I'll cross the Thames and climb the rooftops, next –see if he follows me then." The angry stomping upstairs suddenly changed speed and timbre. "Ah," he chirped mildly. "Got to dash." And he was up and sprinting full-boar out the front door just as John came roaring down the stairs. With a quick wave to Mrs. Hudson, he tore out after Sherlock, hollering something about his gun.

And because she wouldn't have it any other way, Mrs. Hudson stuck her head out the window. "Have fun, boys!"


End file.
